i walk alone through boston at 8.05

here is the land of opportunity: the roads seem wider, the people loom larger, the lights seem brighter. they call it the london of the usa, they tell me i must see the cobblestone streets of beacon hill, the brick buildings, the vintage lightposts. here, icy air permeates my consciousness, snow scatters like whispers across chapped knuckles, the wind screams bloody murder. here, chinatown is located 2 blocks down and a right turn away– you can’t miss it, have a splendid night. i tread past cobblestone streets, past the man huddled in his blanket on this zero-degree night, the lingering taste of sorrow and hopelessness thick in the air. here, i am a sojourner in a foreign land, yet so is he. i feel winter’s short, fugitive breaths lull me into remembrance. its 8.05 pm, and halfway across the world, i listen to my parents begin their day. my father shuffles to the coffee machine as my sister’s alarm rings. i close my eyes as a bruin fan strolls past. 

notes: I wrote this poem in my hotel room on my last night in boston. I was attending an academic conference and for the first time, I was overseas without my parents. It reflects my feelings of loneliness and unease halfway across the world from my family, mingled with the exhilaration of freedom in a land so culturally distinct from my own.